Athena Sisterhood

by Dharma Kelleher

  “My recovery?” She scoffed as bile burned her throat. “You mean after your fucking boss gunned down my sister in the street after he kidnapped her daughter?”

  “Shea, I—”

  “Or you talking about the broken collarbone I got when he ran me off the road?” It felt good to let it out after three months of simmering.

  “Listen—”

  “No, wait, you must mean my recovery from when your asshole of a partner shot me in the back.”

  “I saved your life, Shea. I think a little gratitude is in order.”

  “Fuck gratitude. I risked my neck to save my niece from you drug-trafficking cops. And that’s the thanks I got. A dead sister, a broken collarbone, and a goddamned bullet in the back. And since you asked, it all still fucking hurts!”

  “Sergeant Foster and Detective Edelman were bad apples. I grant you that. And I am truly sorry for what you went through. I know how painful it is to lose a sister.”

  “Bullshit, you ain’t lost no sister.”

  A moment of silence passed and Shea hoped the call had dropped. No such luck.

  “Shea, I need your help with a case.”

  “I ain’t got time to help you, Rios. You’re the detective. Solve your own damn cases. I build bikes for a living, in case you forgot.”

  “You also signed an agreement to be a confidential informant in exchange for us dropping those weapons charges. In case you’d forgotten.”

  “Those weapons charges were bogus, and you know it. So you can stick that agreement where the sun don’t shine.”

  “I would really hate to send you back to prison. But if you refuse to—”

  “Do what you gotta do, lady. I ain’t gonna be your snitch.”

  “People are dying, Shea. Women are dying.”

  Shea stopped for a second, processing what Rios had said. “What the hell you talking about?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. You know where the Black Rock Mine is?”

  “ ’Bout halfway between Ironwood and Bradshaw City. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Meet me there in an hour.”

  “The mine’s closed.”

  “Yes, the county seized it awhile back for safety violations and unpaid taxes.”

  “Yeah, right. Sounds like Buzzkill wanted his own gold mine,” Shea said, referring to Sheriff Buzz Keeler.

  “An hour, Shea. The gate will be unlocked.”

  “And if I don’t go?”

  “I’ll have Deputy Aguilar pick you up. You’re at Iron Goddess, judging by the sounds in the background. Am I right?”

  “Fuck,” Shea whispered under her breath.

  “What’ll it be, Ms. Stevens?”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at the goddamn mine.”

  Shea hung up and tossed the welding torch onto the rack. She felt like pounding something with a hammer. “As if I ain’t got enough shit to deal with.”

  She traipsed into the office and snatched her hoodie off the coatrack so hard it fell over with a loud clang. “Goddamn fuckity fuck.”

  Terrance glanced up at her. “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fucking fine.”

  “ ’Cause you just assaulted a perfectly innocent coatrack.”

  “Detective Rios wants me to meet with her about something.”

  “Uh-oh. What trouble you get yourself into now? You doing burnouts in front of the Tastee-Freez again?” He grinned, no doubt attempting to lighten her mood. It wasn’t working.

  “Funny. It’s that fucking confidential informant agreement she forced me to sign when I was in the hospital doped up on painkillers.”

  “What does she want you to do?”

  “No idea.”

  “Maybe she just wants you to keep your ears open for illegal activity.”

  “I doubt it. She wants to meet with me at the old Black Rock Mine.”

  “Really? Why there?”

  “Prolly so nobody sees me meeting with her. Such bullshit. I’ll be back in a while.”

  She stormed out to the back parking lot, slipped on her Shoei helmet, and threw a leg over Sweet Betsy, a black cruiser, low and mean, with a high-performance 750cc engine that could outrun a Harley twice its size.

  The motorcycle peeled out of the Iron Goddess parking lot and turned north onto Sycamore Springs’ Main Street. The quaint, tourist-driven shops of Olde Towne Sycamore Springs blurred past, replaced by rolling hills of prairie grass dotted with juniper.

  The crisp morning air and bright blue sky took the edge off her anger. Wind therapy, Shea called it.

  —

  Black Rock had been a gold mining town back in the 1800s. The recent spike in gold prices had inspired some opportunistic businessmen to make another go of it. At least until Buzzkill shut them down. No doubt to put some coin into his next election campaign.

  Now there was nothing left of the town but a faded welcome sign, a feed store, and the shuttered gold mine.

  Just past the feed store, Shea pulled onto a gravel drive and stopped at a ten-foot chain-link gate topped with razor wire and bearing a sign that read CORTES COUNTY PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. A steel chain dangled from the adjoining fence.

  With a nudge from the bike’s front tire, the gate swung open. She drove through without closing the gate and followed the gravel road around a wide turn and down a steep hill. Half-buried rocks and sand-filled ruts made driving tricky, adding to the tension Shea felt about this meeting.

  At the bottom, the road opened into a gravel lot with a rusting yellow excavator and an enormous blood-red wash plant at one end. Several fifteen-foot-tall mounds of tailings bordered the edge of the lot.

  At the other, a blue Honda Accord was parked beside a wooden building the size of a double-wide. The place felt empty and lonely, like a community wiped out by a flood. Dreams had died here. Fortunes lost. Hopes shattered.

  She steered Sweet Betsy toward the building and crunched to a stop beside the Honda. No sign of Rios in the car. Shea shut off the bike and let her side stand sink into the soft ground.

  A wooden sign identifying the building as the mine office hung from hooks and clacked in the breeze. Shea found herself staring at the doorknob. Her shoulder throbbed. Her hand balled into a tight fist and pounded on the door.

  “Come in,” said an all-too-familiar voice.

  The overhead lights were off. Sunlight from the window filtered through a haze of dust motes. Rios sat behind a battered metal desk. A green shaking table for separating gold from concentrates stood at the far end of the room.

  Shea plopped down in a metal folding chair and stared at Rios. “Why the hell am I here?”

  Rios opened a manila case folder on the desk and spread out three eight-by-ten crime scene photos.

  Shea picked one up and felt her stomach sour at the image of a woman’s ashen face contorted in pain, eyes bulging, and foaming at the mouth. The other two photos were equally gruesome. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to these women?”

  “Hex laced with strychnine. It’s a brutal way to die. Muscle seizures. Agonizing pain. Victims die from a lack of oxygen because their lungs quit working.”

  “What’s this got to do with me? I don’t deal drugs.”

  “We have evidence that someone in the Athena Sisterhood Motorcycle Club is dealing the strychnine-laced hex,” said Rios. “We need your help to find out who it is so we can keep anyone else from dying such a horrible death.”

  “I ain’t involved with the Sisterhood.”

  Rios leaned forward, a slight smile curling the corner of her mouth. “You’re about to be.”

  Shea clenched her jaw, remembering Jessica’s pleading to spend more time with her and with Annie. “Why me?”

  “You’re a perfect fit. You grew up around a motorcycle club. You’re a woman involved in the biker community. You support feminist causes. And the local chapter president is a close friend of yours.”

  “Debbie
Raymond?” Shea winced. “We broke up years ago. We are definitely not friends.”

  “You don’t have to date her. But given your history, I suspect she’d be more inclined to open up to you than anyone we could send in undercover.”

  “Why are you looking at the Sisterhood for this? The only ones dealing that kinda shit are the Confederate Thunder and the Jaguars street gang.”

  Rios shook her head. “What’s left of the Jaguars relocated to Phoenix.”

  “And the Thunder? They stole a ton of hex from the Jags. How do you know they’re not behind these deaths?”

  “A woman wearing an Athena Sisterhood vest was seen dealing drugs to the latest victim at the Trip Hop Lounge.”

  “Why would the Athena Sisterhood kill other women? It don’t make sense.”

  “That’s what we need you to find out.”

  “Junkies overdose all the time. Why is the Violent Crimes Division investigating?”

  “These aren’t overdoses. Someone is deliberately putting rat poison in hex. That’s murder.”

  Shea ran a hand through her hair while eyeing the photos. The thought of being a snitch sickened her. But something about the women in the photos tugged at her conscience. “What d’you expect me to do? I ain’t no detective.”

  “Have you heard from Ms. Raymond?”

  “Couple months ago, she invited me to become a prospect. Told her I wasn’t interested.”

  Rios inched the photos closer to Shea. “Call her back and tell her you’ve changed your mind.”

  Shea stared at her. “Do you have any idea the time commitment required to be a prospect for an MC? I’d be at their beck and call 24/7. I got too much on my plate as it is.”

  “I’m not saying you have to become a prospect, Shea. Just hang out with them. Get them talking. Maybe they’ll tell you something that can help me nail whoever’s dealing.”

  “They ain’t gonna tell me shit. I’m an outsider.”

  “Hardly. You’re one hundred percent USDA prime Athena Sisterhood material. And you’re resourceful.”

  “I got other priorities right now.”

  “Such as?”

  “Raising my niece, for one, since the sheriff’s office made an orphan outta her.”

  Rios’ face hardened, all traces of politeness gone. “Shea, if you violate your CI contract, I’ll have the DA press charges against you. You go back to prison. Annie ends up in the foster care system. Is that what you want?”

  In a fit of fury, Shea kicked the desk, leaving a dent in the beige metal back. Rios backed up, her hand hovering over the gun at her hip. “Are we going to have a problem here?”

  “You’re a real bitch, ya know that?”

  “I’m trying to save some lives here. If that makes me a bitch, so be it. But you have a choice to make.”

  Shea weighed her options. She wanted so much to tell Rios to fuck off. But she couldn’t risk Annie getting put into the system. Or worse, into the care of Monster and his old lady. “I can’t guarantee they’ll tell me who’s dealing.”

  “I have faith in you,” Rios replied.

  Shea stood up, arms wrapped around her chest, and stared blankly out the dust-covered window. “Fucking cold in here.”

  “So I can count on you?”

  Shea let out a harsh breath. No way should she do this. Jessica was already complaining Shea didn’t spend enough time taking care of Annie. And to top it off, Shea would be hanging out with Debbie, the manipulative bitch from hell. All to save a few junkies.

  But the disturbing images of the dead women had burned themselves into her mind. No one should have to die like that. What if Deb really is behind this? Wouldn’t it be sweet to send her to prison after all the crap she put me through? That alone might make it worth the trouble.

  “All right, I’ll do it.” Shea stormed out the door without waiting for Rios’ response.

  She threw a leg over her bike and yanked on her gloves and helmet. Memories of her fucked-up relationship with Deb twisted her insides. The passion. The love. The sex. The mind games. The fights.

  At the main road, her front tire hit a deep pothole. The bike pitched left. Shea planted her foot and strained to keep the bike upright.

  “Fuck! Get your head straight, girl,” Shea mumbled. Condensation from her heavy breathing fogged the inside of her visor.

  Rios pulled up alongside her in the Honda and rolled down a window. “You okay? Need some help?”

  Shea flipped her off, sending up a rooster tail of gravel as she tore off down the highway.

  Chapter 7

  When Shea returned to Iron Goddess, Terrance was out at lunch. Shea spent ten minutes locating Deb’s office number on the Central Arizona University website. It rang several times and then switched to voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Professor Raymond.”

  The sound of Deb’s voice set Shea’s teeth on edge. She resisted the urge to hang up.

  “My office hours are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from three until five. Please sign up via the sheet on my door. All other business, please leave a message.”

  “Hey, Deb, it’s Shea.” She struggled for words. Didn’t want to seem too eager. “I wanna talk to you again about the Athena Sisterhood. Gimme a call.”

  A knock on the office door startled Shea. “What?”

  Monica, the shop’s salesperson, stood in the doorframe wearing a tight Iron Goddess T-shirt that accentuated the curves of her chest. “Customer up front wants to order a custom bike. Chlöe somebody. Says she’s got an appointment.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  Shea felt like a rag doll being ripped apart in all directions. Jessica. Annie. Rios. And now a custom job postponing a project that could get them on the cover of some motorcycle glossies. It was all too much. She grabbed the bottle of Bushmills from her bottom desk drawer, took a long pull, then marched to the showroom with a blank custom job folder in her hand.

  In the customer waiting area, a willowy woman sat sipping a bottle of water and thumbing through an issue of Motorcyclist magazine. Wearing a fuchsia business suit and a perfume that smelled of lilac and orchid, the woman was a bit more corporate than Shea’s usual clientele—less leather, more lace.

  Maybe it was just the foul mood Shea was in, but something about this lady drew her ire. She’d met executive types in biker groups before. Most were more interested in showing off their wealth and drinking overpriced cocktails than in going on rides or participating in real biker culture. The kind that couldn’t tell a spark plug from a piston.

  “You Chlöe Stansbury?” Shea asked the woman sitting on one of a half dozen stackable chairs in the customer waiting area, each upholstered in worn burnt orange tweed. A small TV mounted near the ceiling played a muted video of the Isle of Man TT Race on a loop.

  “I am.” The woman stood, her black three-inch heels raising her to about five and a half feet tall. Her smile was pleasant, but with an air of sophisticated authority. “Shea Stevens?”

  Shea extended a hand that was relatively grease free. “Yeah.”

  Her grip was delicate and brief. “I liked what you did with the Pink Trinkets’ bikes.”

  “You listen to the Trinks?”

  Chlöe chuckled. “I suppose I don’t look like a punk rocker, but I do have a rebellious side.”

  “Of course,” Shea said with a forced smile. Probably just buying a motorcycle to show off to her friends at the country club. Oh look at you! You’re so rebellious.

  “I was hoping you could build me something equally spectacular.”

  “How long you been riding?” Shea asked.

  “Almost a year. After I turned forty, I decided to start checking off items on my bucket list.”

  “What are you riding now?”

  “A V Star 250. It’s a good beginner bike, but I’m ready for something with a bit more power. And a lot more pizzazz.”

  “Have you looked at our production bikes?”

  Chlöe glanced at t
he display of bikes on the showroom floor and frowned. “I did, but nothing really spoke to me. I want something built just for me.”

  “We can do that. How much you looking to spend?”

  “Under fifty grand preferably.”

  Shea choked to hide a chuckle. “Uh, well, you can have one of our production bikes for that, but if you want something custom, it’s going to run more in the seventy-five to a hundred range.”

  Chlöe cast a scolding glance. “Oh, I’m sure you can do better than that. I can give you some great exposure with the circles I travel in. Bankers, real estate developers, local celebrities. You’d have more business than you’d know what to do with.”

  Shea’s jaw tightened. I already do. The more Stansbury haggled, the more Shea dug in her heels, half hoping the woman would just walk away. “Sorry, no can do. You want a custom bike, that’s what it’ll cost ya.”

  “Oh very well,” Stansbury said with a sigh. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Let’s do this thing.”

  Damn. “What style bike you want?”

  “Well, I just love pink, don’t you?”

  Shea snorted. “Not really a pink kinda gal myself, but hey, it’s your bike. You like pink? We’ll paint it pink. You looking for a cruiser? A sport bike? A standard? Café racer?”

  Chlöe knitted her brow. “Honestly, I don’t know the difference.”

  Of course you don’t. “Follow me and I’ll school ya.” Shea gave Chlöe a tour of the production bikes, pointing out the different styles, riding positions, and unique features of each one. They stopped next to a café racer with a checkered racing flag painted on the tank.

  “You know, I really like this café racer. It’s very retro.”

  “It’s a popular style.”

  “I think I heard there’s a café racer owners’ group somewhere in the area.”

  “I believe there is.” And you’d fit in like a turd in a punch bowl.

  “How exciting. I love the checkered styling on the fuel tank. Very fifties chic. Although I would want mine—”

  “Pink.”

  Chlöe beamed. “It’s like you can read my mind.”

  “Let me start by getting some measurements.” Shea took out a tape measure and began measuring her client’s height, inseam, arms, and legs.